Tag Archives: literary

Books, Not Bombs

Posted by March 1st, 2011

“U.S. generals would rather have Afghanis hooked on phonics than on drugs.”

Dan Cabrera Photo

 Yesterday a friend of mine posed an interesting question: if you could translate one and only one book into Pashto, the official language of Afghanistan, what book would you choose?

Apparently, my friend—who is currently serving in the Military Intelligence Corps of the United States Army—was asked by one of his superiors for a recommendation of a novel to translate.

This got me thinking, naturally, as to which novel I would choose (more on that later) but, perhaps more importantly, why is the Army translating whole novels for the Afghani population? Aren’t there more pressing issues at hand over there?

Bibliophiles like to believe that books make a difference in the world. Reading enlightens, educates, and connects us all through a shared experience—or so it can be argued. Sure, some books and documents have unquestionably changed the course of human history, from The Communist Manifesto to The Jungle to Harry Potter, among others. And let’s not forget that little missive called the Bible.

There’s no question that books can shock, delight, and make readers see the world from a different viewpoint. If a book fails to move the reader in one way or another then that book has failed. But is the U.S. Army hoping to move the Taliban to tears after reading Sophie’s Choice? Do they hope insurgents will see the error of their ways and the frailty of human life after reading All Quiet on the Western Front?

No matter what book the Army chooses to translate, they may have a bigger problem than subjective taste to confront. It turns out that most of the Afghani population has the reading comprehension of an American Kindergartener. According to a recent Wired blog post, Afghani police and soldiers can’t even read their bank statements or the serial numbers on their weapons. Soldiers who think they’re not getting paid won’t be soldiers for long, and even if they do stick around they can’t keep track of their weapons?

Realizing this, and recognizing that reading comprehension is just a good thing to have in general, NATO forces in Afghanistan have decided to give all soldiers, police officers, and recruits some homework.

This war on illiteracy may prove just as tough as the real war, especially considering that smoking heroin and opium—made from the abundant poppy plant found in Afghanistan— is a way of life for soldiers. U.S. generals would rather have Afghanis hooked on phonics than on drugs and are hopeful they can create some bookworms within a year.

So it makes sense that if Afghanis are going to be reading we might as well provide them with some good books. Unless, of course, our intentions aren’t as benevolent as they seem (are they ever?). Books are information, after all, and it wouldn’t be a war without some good, old-fashioned propaganda. Not that I’m suggesting the military is planning something insidious with their translations—though perhaps some publishers, agents, and authors who are losing out on foreign and translation money may think so—nor am I getting ready to don my tinfoil hat and break out conspiracy theories.

After all, propaganda comes in many forms. We love dropping pro-American leaflets on our enemies almost as much as we love dropping some BLU-82 Daisy Cutters or GBU-43 MOABs. And while some may argue that Military Intelligence is an oxymoron, spreading pro-American sentiment through radio and TV broadcasts, websites, and pamphlets can help win the hearts and minds of civilians and, in the best case scenario, change the minds of some bad guys.

So, is the Army using books to help spread the word that we’re the good guys, then? It’s a little far-fetched, considering what we already know about the reading level of the majority of Afghanis. Add to that the fact that novels can take a heck of a long time to read.

Then again, maybe that’s the point: sit everyone down with a good book and fighting will stop. Both sides can form book clubs, discussing which characters were their favorites, which endings surprised them the most, and who would play whom in the inevitably movie adaptation.

One can only hope.

My friend who brought up the subject suggested the Lord of the Rings trilogy (okay, it’s three books—four if you count The Hobbit—but really it’s like one big, long book). A good choice, I think, since 1) it’s a great read, and 2) the story captures the universal themes of good versus evil, bravery versus cowardice, greed versus selflessness. Another friend of mine suggested To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus Finch is the embodiment of justice; Scout the embodiment of childhood innocence. Both books should be read by everyone, no matter where he or she is from, in my opinion, but I’m not certain they would be top picks for the Army.

Someone else I know suggested The Kite Runner, but that might be a little too raw and harrowing for a newly minted reader. Three Cups of Tea? Sure, definitely, but not exactly the lay-down-your-arms and support your local G.I. book the brass in the Pentagon might be hoping for (plus, it’s non-fiction, which deserves another list).

What novel would you choose as your one book to be translated to Pashto?

Would it be an anti-war book like Catch-22Slaughterhouse Five, or Johnny Get Your Gun? Maybe some flag-waving novels like The Red Badge of Courage or most anything by W.E.B. Griffin or Tom Clancy?

Or would you choose something timeless and profound, a book that exposes the best and worst of humanity, something that cuts right to the core of our beings, something so devastating that one cannot put down the book without being moved to tears and filled with an overwhelming sense of compassion?

Or maybe you’d pick something fun and frivolous to give the war-ravaged citizens some levity and a brief respite from their troubles? After all, it’s the least a book can, and should, do.

My pick? The Giving Tree.

(The above was originally posted at Reading Between the Lines and is re-posted here with the kind permission of the author. U.S. Army photo by Spc. Daniel P. Shook / Special Operations Task Force – South; used with kind permission of the ISAF Task Force.)

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If Only I’d Known

Posted by March 1st, 2011

Writing Advice to My Younger Self

Matt Cheney“Here’s the secret: There is no secret.”

When I was in the fifth grade, I discovered the library had books that told people how to become better writers. I wanted to become a writer, and so I read all the books I could. My parents gave me a subscription to Writer’s Digest for Christmas and I read each issue with intense fascination. I even started sending stories to my favorite magazine,Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. The form rejection letters I got back in my SASEs at first gave me great joy because they meant somebody had looked at my manuscript, thought about it, and decided it wasn’t quite right for them at this time. (I ignored the impersonal salutation, and I thought the editor’s signature was real.)

By seventh grade, I was somewhat frustrated as a writer. I had failed to find anyone who would publish my stories, and I began to think this whole writing biz was rigged. I’d done what all the guidebooks told me to do, I thought. I’d memorized each month’s WD (we’d become so close we thought of each other by our initials). Why wasn’t I published? What did those other people — all those published people — have that I didn’t, aside from a few years?

I first sold a story the summer between the seventh and eighth grades, though not to Asimov’s. Instead, I had lowered myself to doing what I’d sworn I wouldn’t do — I had submitted a story to a magazine aimed at (gasp!) kids. It was called Merlyn’s Pen. One of my teachers had suggested it. The story they published, “The Nauga Hunters”, went on to be reprinted in anthologies and even, about fifteen years after it first appeared, was adapted as a “reader’s theatre” play performed by a professional company in schools throughout New England.

I sold a few more stories as well as some poems to Merlyn’s Pen, but Asimov’s continued to reject me. So did everybody else, for that matter. Occasionally, I got an encouraging rejection slip, but mostly I got form letters. I didn’t start publishing fiction with any regularity until I was in my late twenties. Some of the reason for that is that I got sidetracked, spending about five years trying to become a playwright, then a few years trying to become a poet. (My genre ADHD frequently proves to be a handicap.)

Looking back, I often wonder: What didn’t I know then? What didn’t the guidebooks and Writer’s Digest prepare me for, or what of their advice was I blind to?

Sure, some things had to do with my youth, but I think a lot of what I wouldn’t learn until later could also be applicable to many aspiring writers, and so here are some musings on a few differences between my aspirations, my perceptions, and the realities of the world, some things I wish I could tell my younger self…

1.) Let your weaknesses be your strength.

The lesson I should have taken from the success of “The Nauga Hunters” (a story about two kids in rural New Hampshire) is that writing about what you know isn’t as bad as it sounds. I thought my life was boring and spaceships and aliens were more interesting, but I didn’t know how to write convincingly about spaceships and aliens. Some writers have a great talent for imagining worlds and landscapes and all sorts of weird stuff. I don’t. The things that interest me — and this is as true of “The Nauga Hunters” as of every story that has been successful for me over the last twenty years — are language and psychology. I like to explore how people express themselves, how they develop ideas of who they are and who other people are, the stories they (we) tell each other to justify behaviors, the ways words can complexify life, the ways reality is expressed and obscured by how we talk about it.

I could never write a plot-heavy commercial novel that was in any way interesting. I kept trying to write commercial science fiction when I was young because I thought if I just practiced enough, I might get it right one day. If I had put even a little bit of that energy more toward writing about language and psychology, I probably would have gotten more personal rejection slips than I got, and I might have even sold a story or two. I definitely needed to keep writing and writing, because there’s no other way to learn to write, but I was trying to claw my way up a cliff when there was a ladder right beside me.

2.) Writing programs are sometimes useful, sometimes not.

I’ve been to all sorts of different writing workshops over the years. I’ll probably go to more in the future. I like being around people who care about writing, and I love talking shop. But when I started going to workshops, and at first when I was an undergraduate in NYU’s Dramatic Writing Program, I thought workshops would teach me The Secret. I’d read the writing guides — heck, I’d memorized them! — and I hadn’t learned what The Secret was, so I figured it must be kept by the teachers of writing workshops.

Here’s the secret: There is no secret.

I really learned that when one of my NYU teachers, a wonderful writer himself and a marvelous teacher, asked me how I wrote so consistently. I was flabbergasted. “Practice?” I said sheepishly. “I thought so,” he said, apparently disappointed. He thought I’d found The Secret and could tell it to him.

Other people have written plenty about the risks and benefits of workshops, so I won’t rehash all that. I’ve gotten the most out of them when I’ve had the least expectations, when I’ve kept an open mind, and when I’ve had the luck to have the right workshop leader at the right time. The most profound workshop experience I ever had was with Barry Lopez at Bread Loaf — I arrived at a time when I didn’t think I should keep writing fiction or anything else, and Lopez convinced me that writing can be a noble activity when done carefully and honestly. Some of the other people in our workshop disliked his approach, because he did not stick to workshop protocols. Instead, he led us to discuss why we did what we did, what we wanted to do it for, and what we expected to accomplish. (Outside of class, we got one-on-one feedback on our stories, but I didn’t find that half as useful.) At another time, I might not have been ready for Lopez’s wisdom; that summer, though, it did more for my writing than 100 critique sessions would have.

I feel similarly about MFA programs. Curtis Brown literary agent Nathan Bransford recently wrote a post titled If I Were Running an MFA Program, and it’s worth reading, particularly the discussion in the comments section. There can be a bit of a disconnect between what students think an MFA gets them and what schools intend the students to learn — most (but not all) MFA programs do not spend a lot of time on the nuts and bolts of publishing, for a few different reasons (one of which is that this information is relatively easy to find on the internet and in libraries), but a lot of students leave MFA programs thinking they now know all they need to know about the industry they’ve been studying for a few years as an art. There’s a difference, though, between the art and craft of writing and the art and craft of getting that writing published. This is something that all the writing guides I read when young really did teach me well — from an early age, I knew the basics of agents, contracts, etc. The information is out there, and it doesn’t require an advanced degree to find it.

3.) Diversify.

My lack as a young writer was not so much a lack of skill as a lack of knowledge of myself and the world. I thought if I could just write nice sentences, I’d win a Pulitzer by the time I was 20.

I desperately wanted to major in playwrighting as an undergraduate because I thought the workshops would teach me the skills to get my plays on Broadway. I was annoyed to find many of my peers at NYU writing pale imitations of Pulp Fiction (the hot movie among aspiring screenwriters at the time), but it took me a little while to realize I was writing pale imitations of Christopher Durang and Samuel Beckett. We all imitated because we hadn’t figured out how to tap our own experiences and interests, and our interests and experiences weren’t yet broad enough to produce work of much depth. A little bit of this had to do with our age and various levels of talent, but much more of it had to do with our inability yet to tap into the deep currents of our lives. Chris Shinn, who was a couple years ahead of me at NYU, was smarter than the rest of us and figured this out early, writing Four while we were still trying to figure out what we wanted to say. But it isn’t a matter of age so much as of personality — we all discover our subject matter at different times, and bloom at different rates.

If I could go back in time and talk to my younger self, I’d say: “Don’t worry about it so much.” I thought if I didn’t accomplish x, y, or z by a certain age, I’d be a failure.

Actually, I might have been happier if I had been able to give myself permission to study something in college other than writing. But I was convinced the only way to become a good writer was to major in it. Not so. For many people, in fact, the best way to be a good writer is to spend some time doing things other than studying writing. My writing benefited more from my time working in a high school on Manhattan’s Lower East Side than it did from the classes I was taking when not at work.

Some of the best writing advice I know appears in the introduction of Barry Lopez’s (yes, him again) About This Life:

“Read. Find out what you truly believe. Get away from the familiar. Every writer … will offer you thoughts about writing that are different, but these are three I trust.”

4.) Publication will not solve your problems.

I read Sue Erikson Bloland’s essay Fame: The Power and Cost of a Fantasytoo late. I had already learned or intuited many of its lessons by the time it was published in The Atlantic. If I had read it when I was fifteen or sixteen, it might have given me some comfort. Or not — at fifteen or sixteen, I probably wouldn’t have understood how much it explained. I wanted to be famous. I wanted the world to love and admire me. I wanted to show everybody … something:

Many writers about narcissism … have suggested that narcissism (or grandiosity) is, essentially, a defense against shame — with shame defined as a sense that the self is deeply flawed or deficient. To feel shame is to experience the self as small, weak, insignificant, powerless, defective. It is the experience of the self as not good enough.

I had plenty of self-hatred as a kid, and I wrote to try to escape it, to try to prove that I was good at something, good for something. I thought being published frequently would turn me into a worthwhile person, somebody other people might even want to be around, somebody people might revere. In my most grandiose moments, I wanted to be a guru — I wanted people to come to me for advice and wisdom. I sought advice and wisdom from writers, and so I thought if I became a writer, I would then achieve a kind of wholeness.

Alas, it doesn’t work that way. Publication can be fun, but I don’t think a healthy psyche finds it much more than that. If you haven’t been able to find balance and contentment in your life, publishing won’t help you, and, if anything, it may hurt. It may encourage arrogance or it may cause new neuroses — the common fear, for instance, among many successful artists of all sorts that one day somebody will find out “the truth” and prove to the world that you are a fraud.

I really sympathize with J.D. Salinger these days, writing but not publishing. It’s not a bad option.

5.) You’ll be fine.

There’s more to life than writing, but writing can be a way to discover life. Use it for that, and you’ll surprise yourself sometimes with what you find. Those occasional moments of discovery make all the false starts, clunky sentences, discarded pages, missed opportunities, embarrassing mistakes, and creative failures disappear just long enough to stop stinging.

[The above originally appeared on The Swivetand is reprinted here with kind permission of the author. Photo courtesy Matt Cheney.]

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